


Systole to Diastole

by AeroplanesR0ck



Series: Hold and Release [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Developing Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, M/M, Past Rape/Non-con, Rape Recovery, Trans Character, Trans Sherlock, Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-11-09
Packaged: 2018-09-24 09:04:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 10,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9714632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AeroplanesR0ck/pseuds/AeroplanesR0ck
Summary: Magnussen is dead, but that doesn't mean everything is fine. Sherlock has a lot to deal with in the aftermath of Pressure Point. Luckily, he has John Watson to help him through it.Makes more sense if you read Pressure Point first.





	1. Why Did You Do It?

For a while, it seemed as though they might actually walk from Appledore to Wotton-Under-Edge in silence. Sherlock led the way, unerringly following the directions he’d memorised. A couple of kilometres passed before John spoke. 

“What Magnussen said. Was it true?” 

The question had been running through his mind the entire time. He didn’t know which answer he preferred. Logically, he should want it to be a lie. Who would want to have a wife who’d shot his best friend? Yet if Magnussen had been telling the truth, it would mean that John’s moment of distraction hadn’t been because he’d fallen for Magnussen’s ludicrous lies. It lessened the sting of failure, just a little. In the back of his mind, John was also thinking that this was his way out. From the beginning of his marriage John realised that it had been a terrible idea; but this was a vague, shifting feeling, a hazy sense of discontentment that stood in stark contrast to Mary’s sunny smiles and cheery, easygoing demeanor. However, there was nothing sunny or cheery about shooting John’s best friend. 

Sherlock glanced back at John and considered lying. After all, he’d been doing so by omission for months already. He knew, though, that John would see through him instantly. John always knew when Sherlock was shamming, even if he couldn’t figure out why or what about. He recalled one day, when they’d been planning John’s wedding. ‘Where’d you learn to do that?’, Mary had asked of his serviette folding. Sherlock had begun to make something up about its usefulness to crime solving. Mary called him out, made him admit he’d learned it on Youtube. ‘I’m not John, I can tell when you’re fibbing.’, she’d said. John had known, though. He’d had that amused look in his eyes that meant he knew Sherlock was fibbing, but John indulged him anyway, let him pretend at being the cool and suave detective. He almost encouraged it, with his blog, calling him extraordinary, clever, ‘above the rest of us’. 

There was no way to hide the truth from John, no way to lie convincingly. Sherlock felt like he was being torn apart. He’d spent months submitting to Magnussen’s every whim to keep this truth from John, had been prepared to send the rest of his life doing so. Now, it was all for naught. 

“Yes, it was.” Sherlock said quietly.

Sherlock watched John’s face with bewilderment as it expressed something almost akin to relief before morphing into confusion. 

“That still doesn’t make sense. Why wouldn’t you tell me? Even more, why would you go through- all that- to keep that from me?”

Sherlock glanced away. “He told you already. Because Mary’s your wife, and you love her, and you are having a child together. You were happy with her, with your life. Knowing would destroy that, would make you choose between your best friend and your family. I wanted to save you that pain.”

John was still frowning. “And that was worth it? How was that in any way worth it?”

Sherlock shook his head. “It was. It would have been. It’s just transport, and you, John, you are worth- anything. Everything.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why are they talking about THIS when Mycroft just died? Because when there are that many things to process, sometimes you have to start with the easiest one. John thought it was the easiest one, anyway. Frankly there is no easy one.


	2. John's Choice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John makes the choice Sherlock never expected.

Silence fell between them again for several minutes. There had been little ambiguity in Sherlock’s words, no way to misinterpret them as being platonic in any way. Sherlock spent the moments bitterly cursing himself. Surely he could have made something up, invented an excuse. John had never seemed to notice all the other times Sherlock’s unwanted feelings threatened to bubble to the surface. 

John eventually spoke. “I choose you.”

Sherlock whipped his head around to frown at him. “You can’t. Your wife-”

“My wife who _shot_ you.” John interrupted. 

“Your _pregnant_ wife.” Sherlock fired back.

John hesitated. “That will need to be worked out.” He said, as evenly as he could. “But you don’t seriously expect that I’m going to go home and say ‘Oh, Mary, I heard today that you shot my best friend. Please don’t do that again, what’s for dinner?’ That’s not- I can’t do that, nor will I.”

“But- you’re married. You love her.”

Sherlock tried to picture how he himself would react. If John -the person he loved- shot his best friend. If he shot himself? That was a completely different scenario. If he shot- Lestrade was the most likely equivalent in this case. Could Sherlock somehow abandon his love for John, for Lestrade’s sake? It didn’t seem plausible. Besides, it was John. He would have had a good reason, surely. Furthermore Sherlock had never imagined John to be a sweet and harmless locum nurse. He’d shot a man the day after they met. Sherlock had always known John’s potential to be a lot more dangerous than he looked. What if he hadn’t? Would that somehow affect Sherlock’s feelings? What if-

“I don’t think I do.” John’s voice cut through his thoughts. “I- Yeah, I married her. But I didn’t -don’t- love her like I should. I-” He paused, taking a deep breath. “I fell in love with someone else long before we even met.”

John lifted his gaze to Sherlock’s, holding it steadily. There was not much ambiguity there, either, not with the intensity in John’s gaze. Suddenly Sherlock found himself bitterly angry. 

“Now, John?” Sherlock said, voice low. “Of all the inconvenient, insensitive, _useless_ times to tell me _that_ , why? What the hell do you think it will do? Do you think that you can fix this, me, that I will just-”

Sherlock stilled. John had a hand on his face, cupping his cheek, the other on his shoulder. “I know, I know.” John murmured. “It’s terrible, horrible timing. And I promise, I promise that you don’t have to do anything with this information. Not now, not ever if you don’t want to. Now is- not the time. I just wanted you to know. That you have me. And I’m not going to leave you again, not for anything, not unless you want me to. And everything’s a mess right now, but we’ll work it out. Together. Okay?”

Sherlock let out a slow breath and nodded. “Okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. I wanted to establish that. A base for them to stand on, in the storm that's to come. I hope it didn't seem to contrived.


	3. A Late Lunch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They still need to talk about Mary

They continued to walk, each consumed in his own silent thoughts. Eventually the hedge-lined fields and suburban housing gave way to quaint brick shophouses. 

“Car rental’s just this way.” Sherlock murmured as they turned a corner. 

John nodded. “Can we eat first?” He was starving, and more importantly, he wanted to get some food in Sherlock. The man was noticeably flagging, clearly exhausted. John didn’t want to imagine how long it had been since Sherlock’s last proper meal. 

Sherlock nodded, glancing around. Spotting a nice-looking pub, he headed over. It was the bottom floor of a small inn, and was rather atmospheric, with wooden signboards and hanging baskets of tiny white flowers. They went in and sat down, picking a spot near the door. Sherlock sat against the wall, where he could watch the flitting of the fish in the aquarium set in the opposite wall as John ate.

“You’re eating too.” John said, as though he could hear Sherlock’s thoughts. Sherlock frowned at him. “Yes you are, no arguments. State you’re in right now, there’s no way I’m letting you drive us home.”

Sherlock hated John’s driving. He loathed how slowly he drove, all patient and polite; all in all the opposite of Sherlock, who always drove like an arsehole with an emergency. He hated John’s ‘driver picks the music’ policy, and the way John ignored him because he needed to ‘focus on the road’. John hated Sherlock’s driving, too, but he hated driving with Sherlock in the car even more than that. 

Sherlock sighed. “Fine. I’ll have the bangers and mash.”

John ordered for the both of them, and then when that was finished they were left in an awkward silence. Awkward silences rarely existed between them. It was one of the best things about their friendship. They talked easily, and when they didn’t have anything to say, they silences were just as easy between them. Now, the spectre of everything that had happened hung between them, demanding to be talked about, yet John had no idea how to bring it up, and Sherlock simply had no desire to. 

Sherlock had two modes of eating- vacuum cleaner and picky child. He was currently displaying the second mode. He ate his peas like this- he speared them carefully on his fork, one on each tine. Once he had four peas on his fork, he swiped them through the mashed potato and ate them. Then he had one slice of sausage. He’d pre-sliced the sausages beforehand, calculating the thickness to leave him with exactly the same number of slices as the number of peas divided by four. 

When he glanced up at John, he found him watching him, a small amused smile on his face. He’d already finished his curry rice with naan, and his plate had been taken away. Sherlock scowled, suddenly feeling self-conscious.

“What are you actually going to do about Mary?” Sherlock asked, just to distract John. The topic would have needed to be broached before they got back to London anyway. “What you said, just now. While I appreciate the sentiment, she is both highly dangerous and carrying your child. I doubt she would be happy. She’s...quite possessive.”

John frowned. “She is? Did she say something to you?”

Sherlock hesitated. “Yes. When I was in hospital.”

John paled slightly. “When I left you with her. God, she could have killed you!”

Sherlock shrugged, flicking a hand dismissively. “She didn’t. You would have known.”

John frowned at this casual attitude towards Sherlock’s brush with death. “What did she say?”

“She said...she explained why I shouldn’t tell you. About what happened.” Sherlock said evasively. Now that it had all come out, he felt incredibly stupid. John hadn’t reacted in any of the ways Sherlock had expected. Not that he was upset by that, far from it, but it was embarrassing to have made such a huge error in calculation, and for so long. 

“And you listened to her?” John sounded incredulous.

“Never mind, that was months ago.” Sherlock snapped. “But we need to figure out a plan of action.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic will be more talking and less happening, unlike the last one. Bit of an interesting change, but I didn't want to be all dialogue. I hope I managed to strike a decent balance.


	4. Get Me Out of Here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's trying to keep it together.

John sighed. “Well, no point in dragging it out. Are you planning on...taking legal action?”

Sherlock shook his head. “It’s...too complicated. It was months ago, and after insisting that I don’t remember, it will seem so suspicious to suddenly say that it was her, and considering the timing, and the fact that if you move back in with me now it would seem like an ulterior motive...it isn’t feasible. Besides, I strongly suspect she might just kill me again and then leave the country. It’s not like Mycroft is around to help stop her.”

He stopped suddenly, as if realising what he’d just said. He bit his lip, turning back to his methodical peas-eating. 

“Sherlock, you know you can- You can’t avoid it forever. And there’s no need to pretend like you don’t care-”

“Typical, John.” Sherlock hissed. “Always coming to the same conclusion, ‘Oh, it’s Sherlock being all aloof again, isn’t he funny, trying to pretend he doesn’t have feelings-’ I am _trying_ to get us out of here without incident, which involves _not_ making a scene. I was getting us home, but _you_ dragged me in here, with all these _country people_. You know they’ve got nothing better to do than be unnecessarily nosy-” He mimicked a high-pitched voice. “‘Why yes, officer, I did see something strange that day...these two men, down at the local...never seen them before, but one of them was crying, it was so strange...Why yes, he did look a bit like that Sherlock Holmes fellow on the telly...and his friend, Doctor Watson…’ So yes, I do need to ‘pretend I don’t care’ at least until I can get home, so if you would kindly let me get on with it, that would be much appreciated.”

John nodded. “Alright, we can go. Let me just pay the bill.”

Sherlock sat back in his chair and nodded, the exhaustion he’d been ignoring for the past couple of hours suddenly hitting him all at once. “Pay by cash.” He said, then froze.

“John, we can’t rent a car.” Sherlock said when John came back. “God, how could I forget, all that paperwork. Such an obvious trail. I can’t believe I forgot- What else have I missed? Anything that leads the crime scene back to us, to you, what if-”

“Sherlock, it’s okay. We can take a cab.” John squeezed Sherlock’s shoulder comfortingly. “You’re doing your best. It’s like you said, the police love open and shut cases. They won’t search all the way here. We’re okay. Come on.”

John gently tugged Sherlock out of the restaurant and got them a cab, keeping a grounding hand on his elbow the whole time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He's starting to crack...please don't blame John, he's doing way better than I would, probably


	5. Lay Me Down to Rest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock finally have a chance to rest.

John shook Sherlock’s elbow gently as the cab turned onto Baker Street. “Nearly home, Sherlock. Wake up.” He murmured.

John rolled his aching shoulder as the heavy weight of Sherlock’s head lifted off it, smiling slightly at Sherlock as the man blinked sleepily at him. 

“We’re home.” He repeated. “You can sleep some more once we get in.” John paid the cabbie and gently nudged Sherlock out the door. 

Sherlock trudged up the stairs, still half asleep, and immediately crashed onto the couch, which had been his makeshift bed for months. John folded the afghan on the back of the couch down over Sherlock’s body, carefully tucking him in. He glanced over at Sherlock’s closed bedroom door, finally making the connection between Magnussen and Sherlock’s new sleeping arrangements. John couldn’t help but think of how Sherlock’s bedroom had used to be a safe place- by unspoken agreement neither John nor Mrs Hudson ever went in there, except for danger nights. Inside was nothing like the chaos of the living room- it was dimly lit and sparsely decorated, the periodic table on one wall and some bee diagrams on the other. It was calm, quiet, private, and entirely his own. Magnussen had taken that private, safe place away from Sherlock, and John sizzled with impotent anger at the thought. Death had been to good for that man.

John turned back to Sherlock, taking a few deep breaths. Sherlock as safe now, and that was what mattered. It wouldn’t do any good to either of them if John threw some fit of anger. He sat down in his chair, sagging with tiredness now that they were safely home. He thought longingly of a bed, but didn’t rise. The upstairs room was too far away. He had to be there when Sherlock woke, had to make sure Sherlock knew the second he opened his eyes that John had not left him. He didn’t even consider using Sherlock’s bed. He couldn’t stand the thought of being in there any more than Sherlock could. He stayed put, then, watching Sherlock sleep from his armchair until he too dozed off.

*****

Exhaustion pressed down on Sherlock like the world’s heaviest blanket, shoving him down into a sleep so deep it was less like sleeping and more like just being unconscious for several hours. He didn’t dream, too tired for even that. When his consciousness returned some hours later, for several minutes his body refused to cooperate, his eyes remaining stubbornly closed and his limbs loose and unresponsive.

When finally the heavy fog of sleep lifted, Sherlock opened his eyes to find that night had fallen. In the hazy light of the streetlamps filtering through the curtains, he could make out the vague shape of John’s body in the armchair. He hauled himself up to kneel by John’s side, boldly placing a hand on his knee as he shook him awake.

“You can’t sleep here, John, you’ll be sore in the morning.” He murmured.

John blinked awake. “Time ‘ssit?” He rasped.

Sherlock fumbled for his phone, squinting at the sudden, harsh light. “Nearly midnight. You should go sleep upstairs.”

John got to his feet, groaning as his back clicked audibly. “Alright. But come get me if you need me, okay? For anything at all.”

Sherlock nodded. “I will, John.”

Sherlock settled back onto the sofa as John made his way upstairs, feet finding his way in the dark as easily as if he’d never left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sleepy little filler chapter. Mary next chapter, probably.


	6. A Tentative Dance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bed-sharing and hand-holding and a brief midnight conversation,

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The boys were so uncooperative with this chapter. I wanted to move on to the confrontation with Mary, but they were all 'I think we might talk about something, tonight.' Okay, fair. So I wrote them a nice little set-up, and then they clammed up. But they still wouldn't let me scrap it and just move on. This is all I managed to squeeze out of them, after three days of wrestling with the story.

Always a light sleeper, John was sitting up in bed and switching on the bedside light even before he consciously registered another presence in the room. 

“Sherlock? You all right?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Can’t sleep. Didn’t want to be alone downstairs. Could I- join you?”

John nodded and shifted aside, making room for Sherlock. “You sure this is okay with you?” He asked as Sherlock settled beside him. 

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t have suggested it if I was uncomfortable with being physically close to you.” He paused, frowning. “Unless you’re asking because of my- experiences with Magnussen. The answer to that is also no. He always left after. Or he didn’t stay to sleep, anyway. Therefore, sharing a bed with you is unlikely to be a triggering experience.”

John nodded slowly. “Do you...want to talk about it?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Not tonight, John.”

“Okay. Get the light, would you?” John shut his eyes and consciously forced himself to relax. 

Sherlock turned off the light, and they passed several minutes in the silence and darkness. Slowly, Sherlock’s hand snaked over the covers, closing around John’s wrist. John remained still and unresponsive, but his pulse, not quite at resting rate, hiked a little more. 

“I know you’re awake, John.” Sherlock said, his voice sounding unnaturally loud in the hushed, awkward silence.

John sighed softly and opened his eyes, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. “Yeah, I am.” He admitted.

“I’m making you uncomfortable.” Sherlock deduced.

John shook his head. “No, it’s fine. Everything’s fine.”

“You were sleeping fine before I came in. I heard you snoring.” Sherlock argued. 

John sighed. “I just don’t want to do anything to make _you_ uncomfortable.”

Sherlock rolled onto his back, hand falling away from John’s wrist. “This is stupid.” He muttered. 

Cautiously, John reached out, taking Sherlock’s hand again. Sherlock exhaled slowly, lacing their fingers together. It felt, good, grounding, to have that simple touch, knowing there was no threat or expectation behind it. 

“I don’t know what he did to you, other than what I saw, though I suppose I can guess the gist of it.” John said quietly. “I don’t want to misstep, but I feel like I’m fumbling in the dark.”

Sherlock sighed. “I don’t know what to say, John. He- he raped me. I let him. He didn’t physically harm me. There was some other stuff, but that’s it, really. I didn’t like it, but it happened, and now it’s over. And you’re here. That’s good. I’m not- It’s a silly thing to say about something that’s been happening for months, but I’m still processing it. What do you want? An emotional reaction? I don’t even know how I feel right now, there’s too much. I could give you a blow-by-blow account, but that would take a while, and I don’t see what purpose that would serve.”

John squeezed Sherlock’s hand. “No, I don’t need that. You don’t owe me anything, really, I phrased that badly. I just- I want to help, if I can, but I’m not sure what you need me to do.”

Sherlock squeezed John’s hand back. “This is fine. Just go to sleep.”

“Alright. Night, Sherlock.”

“Good night.”


	7. One More Thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock have a talk with Mary.

Mary Morstan was dressed and made up, ready to leave, when her husband came in the door. She smiled at him, more out of habit than anything.

“John! I was just about to come find you. There’s something I need to tell you.”

John looked grim. “Yeah, there’s something we need to tell you too.”

Mary looked between him and Sherlock, who had come in after John and was now standing behind him, looking primed and ready to jump in and intervene if the situation called for it. Her eyebrows rose.

“I see.” She said, not in the least bit surprised. “Well, at least you have good timing. Charles Magnussen was found dead this morning.”

There were novels in the way the pair glanced at each other. “I see.” She said again, slightly more surprised. She wondered whether it had been Sherlock or John who’d pulled the trigger. John was the soldier, but she’d heard stories of the things Sherlock had done while he was dead, though she hadn’t known it was him at the time. They both had equal motivation to do it. 

“Would you sit?” She gestured towards the sofa.

John was still glaring at her, eyes hard. “I’d rather stand.”

She sighed. “Alright.” She looked at Sherlock. “How much have you told him?”

“He knows that you were the one who shot me, though you were actually there to kill Magnussen. Possibly he’s also deduced that he had something on you, too, although I doubt he’s had time to think that far.” Sherlock had his hands in his pockets, looking far more relaxed now, though it was mostly a facade. Still, he seemed to have sensed that she had no immediate intentions of murdering either one of them.

She nodded. “He did. I won’t tell you what, but I suppose you deserve to know what he wanted of me.”

“What did he want?” John asked, impatient to move the conversation along.

“He wanted me to marry you.” She said simply. 

John’s eyes widened, but he recovered quickly. “So, it was all a lie?”

“Not at first.” She admitted. “How we met, when we started dating, that was all real. Then he came back.” She glanced at Sherlock. “The way you looked at him- I knew I could never compete. I was going to leave you. But Magnussen made me stay with you.”

John frowned. “Why would he want that?”

“To keep the two of you apart. To leave Sherlock vulnerable so he could- collect him.”

John was suddenly enraged. “So you’re the reason Sherlock was-” His voice faltered, unable to say the words. Sherlock stepped forwards, wrapping a calming hand around John’s wrist.

“She was manipulated by him to get to me, much like how he used me to get to- to Mycroft.” He said, too quietly for Mary to hear.

John sighed, but seemed to stand down a little. “Right. Anything else I need to know?”

“The baby isn’t yours.” She said flatly.

Sherlock gave her a scanning look. “David.”

She nodded, then smiled, brightly and falsely. “Well, everything’s settled now. Magnussen’s dead, we all got what we wanted, you don’t need me for anything, I don’t need you for anything. Go home with Sherlock, I’ll contact you about the divorce.”

John looked like he wanted to say something, not content with letting her have the last word, but Sherlock tugged him away, hand still around John’s wrist. 

“Let’s go home, John.” He murmured.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote Mary as being more self-serving rather than actually having malicious intention. I think it makes her a more interesting character, even if it does mean that she ends up with a happier ending than she probably deserves.


	8. Cab Comforts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They make their way home, and Sherlock gets a phone call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, I know I'm supposed to be more regular with updates now that my holiday's started. But in by defense, a pasar malam (night market) sprang up at a train station near my house, so I've been going there in the evenings (my writing time) to wander around and eat street food.

On the rare occasions when John indulged himself so far as to allow himself to imagine himself confessing his feelings to Sherlock, he had never guessed that it would be so dramatic and yet so undramatic at the same time. Perhaps it was because he wasn’t really one for elaborate setup. That was more Sherlock’s purview. In his head, his confession came in a quiet moment, when he had finally got up the courage to say something, or when he could hold it in no longer. There were no dead brothers, no vile, evil, dead rapist blackmailers; just the two of them, alone in Baker Street, the fire burning low, perhaps the remains of Chinese takeaway between them. 

At the same time, he’d expected something more of a reaction. After Sherlock’s initial outburst, everything settled very quickly. They’d arrived at an understanding very quickly, things clicking into place with the same easy acceptance that characterised much of their relationship. John loved Sherlock. Sherlock loved him, but was in no state to actually do anything about that. John understood this, and was perfectly willing to wait however long it took, and take whatever Sherlock could give him; which was rather more than he’d actually expected at the time. Sherlock had allowed John to comfort him and be close to him. They’d fallen asleep holding hands. Sherlock did the same for him, too. In the cab back from Mary’s (it was almost surprising, how quickly he ceased to think of it as ‘his’ house), Sherlock put his arm around John, allowing him to rest his head in the crook of Sherlock’s neck, his prominent collarbone fitting perfectly against the slight dip in John’s temple. 

Pressed up against him, Sherlock could feel John’s breathing, slow, deep, and even- too even. John only breathed like that when he was distressed, a product of therapy ‘breathing techniques’. Sherlock had no idea what to do or say, but John didn’t seem to demand any further comfort than for Sherlock to allow him to lean against him. Sherlock rubbed his hand up and down John’s upper arm, remembering that from some show he’d watched with John on the telly. John lifted his head to look Sherlock in the eye, smiling weakly. 

“Thanks.” John murmured. “You okay?”

Sherlock hummed vaguely. “As well as can be expected.”

John snorted, laying his head back down on Sherlock’s shoulder. “That’s really not saying much.”

The cab pulled up in front of their flat just as Sherlock’s phone rang. Sherlock picked it up, frowning. He hardly ever got calls. Anyone who knew him well enough to contact him semi-regularly knew that he hated phone calls. He trailed up the stairs after John, listening to the person on the other end.

“Who was that?” John asked as Sherlock hung up. 

“Just the police.” Sherlock murmured. “They want me to come in to identify Mycroft’s body.”


	9. West Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock cries, finally.

The drive over to Gloucestershire Royal Hospital took an agonizing two hours. John napped against Sherlock’s shoulder as Sherlock stared out the window, absently noting that they were taking almost exactly the same route that Magnussen had taken driving then up to Appledore. It was difficult to believe that had only been yesterday. So much had happened since then. Sherlock still wasn’t sure how he felt about that. Yesterday he’d faced a life filled with humiliation and rape. Today, he was free, but his brother was dead. If he could choose, would he take that suffering to keep Mycroft alive? Of course he would. Then why did he feel relieved? He was relieved that Magnussen was dead. He was even relieved that it was not John who had been shot. Which was terrible, awful. He shouldn’t feel relieved that his brother had thrown himself in front of a bullet. He was a horrible brother for even thinking that, and he didn’t deserve to be sad about it as well.

John shifted, waking. Even in his sleep he could sense when Sherlock was in distress. Perhaps it was their deep emotional connection creating a bond beyond logical understanding, or perhaps it was the tension in Sherlock’s shoulders. He sat up, touching Sherlock’s elbow gently.

“Sherlock?”

“I’m fine.” Sherlock croaked out, still staring resolutely out the window.

John touched his fingers to Sherlock’s cheek. They came away wet. “You’re crying, love.”

Sherlock scrubbed at one cheek with the heel of his hand. “Am not.” He muttered. “Just- leaking.”

“It’s alright.” John murmured. “You’ve been holding it together for so long. But there’s nothing left to do, now. You can let it go.”

Sherlock slumped down in his seat. “I can’t. I don’t know how.”

There was too much inside- a roiling storm, too violent to be let out safely. He wanted to scream, wanted to fling open the car door and feel his body tumble across the asphalt like a physical expression of his painful, tumbling thoughts- but that would alarm John, and he was just upset, not suicidal, so he kept his hands twisted together firmly in his lap.

Sherlock stuffed his wrist in his mouth, biting down hard and for a moment the pain felt good, expanding until it eclipsed everything else. Then suddenly he was flooded with a sense memory, of another time he’d done the same thing. He was flat on his back in bed, Magnussen’s head beneath his thighs, scratchy beard contrasting with a warm, wet, unwanted mouth. 

Sherlock crossed his legs tightly together, fresh tears bursting forth at the memory, feeling ridiculous even as he did so. There was no threat present, no one in this cab who had any desire to hurt him. He took John’s hand and squeezed hard, taking deep, shuddering breaths as he fought himself for control.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gosh, this chapter was hard to get out. I had to get up and walk around every two or three sentences because it was just. Too much to write down all at once. And i spent way too long looking at the Google Maps street view of Gloucestershire Royal Hospital.


	10. To the Hospital

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They make it to their destination.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was so distracted while writing this. But I think it turned out ok.

John allowed Sherlock to crush his hand in his vice-like grip with nary a wince, looking with concern at his friend. He placed a gentle hand on Sherlock’s cheek, but the other man flinched away as if he had been burned.

“Sherlock? Look at me. Come on, look at me, Sherlock.” John murmured.

Sherlock’s eyes were screwed shut, his ragged breathing harsh and uncontrolled. He focussed on the sound of John’s voice, the gentle cadence of it, the way he lingered just the tiniest bit in the ‘r’ of Sherlock’s name. That was good. It was a good sound. Sherlock could measure how John felt about him just by how he said his name. When John was angry with him, the ‘r’ almost disappeared, the two syllables rapped out in a quick, militaristic tone, the ‘k’ consonant cracking like a whip. When John was happy with him the sound loosened out, Sherrrlock, almost melodious, the ‘k’ sound softened into a gentle pat. 

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock’s grip on John’s left hand loosened slightly, and he opened his eyes, looking at John through a blurry film of tears. Blurry John smiled.

“There you are.” John’s hand lifted into the air, hovering. “May I?”

Sherlock nodded, and leaned into John’s warm touch as he caressed his face, wiping away the dampness. 

“I’m thirsty.” Sherlock muttered.

“That would be the crying. We’ll stop at the next gas station and get you a bottle of mineral water.”

Sherlock nodded and slumped over to put his head on John’s shoulder, leaning on John the same way John had on him earlier that day. The position made his back hurt, but it felt good anyway, so he didn’t move. 

“I’m not good at this.” He said.

Sherlock could feel John shifting beneath him as he turned to look at him. “There’s no good way to grieve.”

“I wasn’t a good brother. I can’t- It’s hypocritical to be upset now, when there’s nothing I can do about it.”

John almost smiled- It was such a Sherlockian thing to say. “You can’t logic away your feelings.”

“Unfortunately not.” Sherlock sighed. He laced their fingers together, and they didn’t speak again for the rest of the ride.

*****

Gloucestershire Royal Hospital was a very depressing shade of brown. Inside, the way to the mortuary was marked out by large, peeling stickers depicting cliched white roses which were pasted onto the floor. Sherlock scowled down at them. Flowers at funerals were a stupid tradition. Surely the last thing a party about a dead person needed was more dying things.

John put his hand on Sherlock’s elbow, tugging him gently away from where he was glaring very intently at the ground.

“Floor’s not going to grow eyes and look back at you anytime soon, Sherlock. Come on, we need to go in.”


	11. Training Wheels Off

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock identifies the body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh. I had some serious writer's block in the middle of this chapter. But I think it came out all right.

Now that he was there, in the mortuary, Mycroft’s naked corpse in front of him, Sherlock couldn’t seem to stop looking. He’d planned, originally, to go in, identify him, and get out, without really looking all too closely, because of course it was him, and so to spend any more time than necessary would just be morbid and self-indulgent. Yet there he was, being morbid and self-indulgent and staring at his brother’s dead body. 

It was strange to see him like that. Mycroft had carefully cultivated an aura about himself, to make himself seem put together and in control, a watchful eye that never sleeps. He never let anyone see him naked, either literally or metaphorically, and he never let anyone see that he had a heart. Yet there he was- naked, a hole ripped right through him to expose his heart. It was his body and his face, but the body looked nothing like Mycroft. It held nothing of who he was.

“It’s him.” Sherlock muttered. He turned away, allowing John to gently guide him away with a hand on the small of his back. 

“Want to get lunch before we head home?” John asked as they stepped out into the weak winter sunshine. 

Sherlock shook his head. “I’d rather get back to London.” He needed all this to be over, needed to be at home where he could sort out his thoughts without all these wide open spaces around him leaving him exposed and vulnerable. 

For the moment, getting into a cab with John was good enough. A large portion of their time spent together had been in cabs, getting to and from cases and wherever else they needed to go. It was comfortable, familiar. Sherlock curled up against John, resting his head against his shoulder. This was less familiar, but no less comfortable. It was even more so, in fact. After several kilometres, Sherlock began to speak. 

“Mycroft’s always been there. Being my older brother, and all that. I’ve never known life without him hanging around in the background of it. You think he was overprotective- you never saw him when I was a child. He was even worse. Always trying to save me from myself. I didn’t much appreciate it, but even so. He was the older one, the smarter one.” Sherlock grimaced. “He knew everything. So it’s- it’s weird. I always thought I’d die first. Even though he’s older. I was the one who made stupid and reckless decisions. He was the one who always knew what to do. And the one time he went and made a stupid and reckless decision, it killed him.”

“He should’ve practiced with something more low-stakes first.” 

Sherlock glanced up and rolled his eyes, though he smiled slightly at John’s attempt at humour. He sighed, laying his head back on John’s shoulder. “It’ll be strange to not have him around to call on. Training wheels off. I’m on my own.”

“Well.” John patted Sherlock’s knee. “Not completely on your own.”

Sherlock smiled and took John’s hand. “Not completely. I suppose you’re right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It occurred to me that I could end the story here. It's a good stopping point, in a sense. Things haven't been resolved, but the road to the resolution is clear enough that I could easily stop ad let you imagine the rest yourself. I won't, though. I still have some plans.


	12. Day by Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Funeral preparations begin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Filler-ish chapter today. I needed to move the story along, chronologically speaking. I've spent eleven chapters on the last two days.

The next few days were a blur of activity. Mary lost no time in packing up John’s stuff, sending them in boxes over to Baker Street along with the divorce papers. Sherlock threw himself eagerly into unpacking John’s things, placing them into the empty spaces in the flat until it was impossible to tell where John’s things ended and Sherlock’s things began. John indulgently allowed Sherlock to do as he pleased, though he warned him that the sock index Sherlock had set up for him would not last very long. Sherlock’s own socks, as well as much of the rest of his clothing, had also migrated up the stairs, stuffing John’s modest closet to near-bursting. Without much pomp and circumstance, John’s bedroom had become ‘their’ bedroom. The door to what had previously been Sherlock’s bedroom remained firmly closed. 

At the same time that this was happening, the news of Magnussen’s death broke. As Sherlock had predicted, it was an open-and-shut case. Two men found dead, with bullet holes matching the guns that the other had fired. The precise motive was murky, but quite clearly, there had been some sort of stand-off, and they had killed each other. The news ate up the grisly mutual murder story, the flames fanned further by Magnussen’s notoriety. It wasn’t long before it was discovered that the other half of the crime scene, a minor government official, was in fact the older brother of the famous detective Sherlock Holmes. 

Leaving the house became nigh impossible. John couldn’t go out for milk without being accosted by journalists looking for information. Luckily, not long after that the police released Mycroft’s body, and John and Sherlock had to make their way to Sherlock’s parents’ house for the funeral. Sherlock enlisted the help of his Homeless Network for a distraction so they could get into a cab, and they managed to get to their destination without significant incidence. 

Mummy Holmes met them at the gate, tearfully enfolding her son in a hug as soon as he got out of the cab. John hung back with the bags, awkwardly making eye contact with Mr Holmes, who was standing in the doorway to the house.

“Mummy, perhaps we should go in? I expect John is getting rather cold.” Sherlock said, after bearing the hug for several moments. 

Mrs Holmes stepped back, swatting Sherlock on the arm. “John is wearing a jumper like a sensible man. Why aren’t you wearing your coat? And you’re skin and bones, even more so than when I last saw you. Hasn’t anyone been feeding you?” She hustled him into the house and John followed, smiling briefly at Mr Holmes as he passed him.


	13. Welcome to the Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mrs Holmes has a talk with John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lighthearted chapter today. There are good moments too.

“Mummy, this is John. I don’t believe you’ve met.” Sherlock said as they entered the warm kitchen. He looked visibly relieved as his ploy worked, and he was released from his mother’s clutches.

“John! It’s lovely to finally meet you. I’m sorry it took such extreme circumstances for Sherlock to finally bring you here.” She shot a brief glare at Sherlock over her shoulder. “Siger, come here, take these bags from John and put them in Sherlock’s bedroom. John, why don’t I show you around.”

Sherlock leapt forwards. “I can do that, Mummy, there’s no need.” He said quickly.

Mummy gave him a quelling look. “I’m sure you’re tired from your journey. Why don’t you sit down?”

“I was sitting down the entire way here! And John was on the same journey.” Sherlock protested.

“Sit down, Sherlock. Talk to your father.” She added, as he came down the stairs. She hustled John upstairs before Sherlock could form another retort.

“He’s so stubborn.” She said fondly to John once they were out of earshot. “Mycroft was, too. The pair of them were quite the handful. Then again, Siger says they get it from me, so I shouldn’t complain.”

John nodded awkwardly, unsure how he was meant to respond. 

“I’m so glad he has you. I was so afraid he would end up like Mycroft, you know. Not that there’s anything wrong with how Mycroft was, but Sherlock isn’t like him. He’s not happy alone.” She continued. 

John nodded again. “I’m not going to leave him. I-” He glanced towards the stairs. “I love him.” He said quietly. “And he seems to feel the same, even though I’ve...made a lot of mistakes. So. I’m doing my best.”

She smiled, a bit tearfully. “That’s all I ask, John. He’s my baby boy, you know? Always has been, always will be. I’m sure you’ll understand when you and Sherlock have your own.”

John blinked. “Um, yes. I mean, no! Uh, we haven’t discussed it. This is all...new. And I don’t think Sherlock would- Hey, wonder what they’re doing? We should go down.” He turned, practically fleeing down the stairs.

Sherlock frowned at John as he came to sit next to him on the sofa. “What did she say to you?”

John shrugged. “The usual. Mum stuff. You know.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “Unfortunately I do.” He said darkly.

John elbowed him gently. “Don’t be like that. She’s your mum.”

Sherlock flopped over against John’s side and sighed. “Unfortunately.” He said again, though his tone was less serious. He scowled at his father, who was smiling indulgently at the pair of them. ‘Don’t you start.”

Mr Holmes held up his hands innocently. “I didn’t say anything.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So we learned from TEH that Sherlock becomes a giant teenager when his crush/boyfriend and his parents are in the same room. I wanted to write a bit of that. Look at him, all shy but also showing off his shiny new boyfriend at the same time.


	14. Bubble-Wrapped in Darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another night-time talk, a longer one this time. Things are always easier to say in the dark.

That night, they lay wrapped up in each other in the darkness of Sherlock’s childhood bedroom, resting together.

“I have to write a eulogy.” Sherlock muttered against John’s chest. “I’m not sure what to say. I’ve never had to do this before. Never paid attention at funerals.”

John could’ve said something cliche like ‘write from your heart’, but he knew that Sherlock wouldn’t know what to do with that. He was looking for real advice. John remained silent for a while, thinking.

“Start with introducing yourself. Who you are, how you knew him. You can do a brief rundown of his life- whatever of it isn’t classified, obviously. Pick things that relate to your point. The reason you’re doing the eulogy is because you have a unique perspective of what he was like, being his only sibling. So you can make use of that, talk about what he was like as a child, or the side of him that other people didn’t get to see. Pick two or three characteristics you want to talk about. Something flattering, if you can. Tell stories that illustrate why you say that he was...whatever you’re saying. Then finish with something sentimental. The biggest way he’s impacted your life, or something you wish you’d said while you have the time, or something like that.”

Sherlock hummed thoughtfully. It helped to have a clear formula. “You’ve done this before.” He deduced. “Not for either of your parents, you were too young when your mother passed, and you didn’t even go to your father’s funeral. You don’t have any siblings other than your sister-”

“For you, idiot.” John interrupted. “You died, remember?”

Sherlock stiffened slightly at the reminder, regretting having brought it up. They still hadn’t talked about it properly, not since that forced moment of forgiveness in the train carriage. John’s tone, though, was wry but fond. Somewhere along the way he’d lost the bitter edge, and the hand stroking slowly down Sherlock’s spine left absolution in its wake. 

“I’m sorry.” Sherlock said anyway.

John sighed, his breath gently ruffling Sherlock’s curls. “It’s...it’s not alright, but I understand.” He nuzzled along Sherlock’s hairline, kissing his forehead. “But you know- you don’t have to keep doing that. You’ve done so much to protect me. It’s my turn, now. Let me be the one to protect you, and keep you safe.” 

“But you have.” Sherlock said earnestly. “That’s what you’ve always done, from the beginning. Since the first time you shot a man for me.”

“And look what’s happened since then.” John’s fingers traced back up Sherlock’s spine, but this time they followed the raised lines of the thick, ropey scars that covered his back. “I haven’t done a very good job. Couldn’t even stop my own wife from shooting you. Didn’t even notice when someone was hurting you for months.” 

Sherlock shook his head. “None of it was your fault. I made my choices.”

“I wish there was something I could do.” John murmured. “To make sure you’re never hurt again, in any way.” 

“You can’t.” Sherlock said simply. He should know. He’d tried to do just that for John, but that had backfired quite thoroughly.

John sighed. “I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoo boy, I cried writing this. I go four hours of sleep last night, now I'm tired and emotional. And possibly high on caffeine. I had a shift at work, so I drank half a litre of tea and nearly half a litre of coffee in the morning so I wouldn't fall asleep.


	15. Where We Want To Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has an idea.

John soon realised that Sherlock took after his mother in the sense that she, too, covered her negative emotions by throwing herself into a task with frenetic energy. As far as he could tell, she hadn’t stopped except to eat and sleep since they arrived, spending the whole day calling various people to make arrangements, and baking endlessly. The rest of them helped out where they could, arranging flowers and snaffling scones when she wasn’t looking.

The church was beautiful for Mycroft’s funeral, the reception well supplied. Sherlock delivered his eulogy with a grave solemnity that adequately covered his nervousness. Afterwards, he suffered through five whole minutes of strangers coming to shake his hand before he slunk off to a private corner of the house. John followed, and Sherlock pulled him into a hug, sucking in a deep breath as though he could absorb energy from the proximity of John’s body.

“I hate this.” Sherlock muttered.

“I know.” John murmured.

“And I hate public speaking.” He added.

“I know.” John said again.

“I can’t wait until this is over and we’re back in London.” Sherlock said, then grimaced. “Except that there’s the press in London.”

John nodded. “About that. I have an idea, if you like.”

Sherlock cocked his head curiously. “And what’s that?”

“Well. Like you said, the press is making London an annoying place to be in, right now. And a lot of things have changed, since we were last living in Baker Street together. A lot happened, and it’s like- there are ghosts. So I thought, we could take a little holiday, if you want. Maybe even a long one. We have the money now, with what Mycroft left you. I’ll pitch in my share too, of course, I have some saved. We could just- travel. See things we’ve always wanted to see. Sort ourselves out. I thought, maybe it might make things easier to figure out, somehow. Freeing, in a way.”

Sherlock considered this. “The idea has merit.”

John smiled at him. “It’s up to you. You have time to think about it.”

Sherlock shook his head. “No, I don’t need to. I want to. It sounds good. Travelling with you, wherever we want to go. I’ve only ever travelled where I needed to go. After the last few months...having the freedom to do whatever the hell I want sounds very good.”

John grinned at him. “Okay. We can start making some plans. Figure out where we want to go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short lil chapter to bring us into the next phase. What do you think of the idea? Let me know. And if you want Sherlock and John to visit your hometown, or if you know somewhere they might be interested in visiting, let me know!


	16. How Many?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More hanging out in bed and talking. Beds and cabs. That's where all the best conversations happen.

Dinner was an annoying affair, full of relatives Sherlock hadn’t seen in decades and cared nothing for. John and Sherlock begged off early and went to hide out in their room. The pair of them lounged on the bed, John googling potential travel destinations while Sherlock sprawled across the rest of the bed, gazing up at John’s profile. 

John glanced down at him. ‘How many languages do you actually speak?”

Sherlock hummed nonchalantly. “Most major European languages- German, Italian, French, Greek, Spanish, Portugese, a bit of Swedish and Polish. Other than English, obviously, I’m most comfortable in French and Greek. I learned Russian, too, and Mandarin. And I picked up bits here and there while I was...away. Mostly Arabic, Japanese, Korean, and Hindi- and Nepali, but the two are similar enough that it’s probably unfair to count it as knowing two languages. And Serbian, though I’d really rather not go there.”

John’s jaw dropped. “Wow. That’s a lot.”

Sherlock gave a lazy half-shrug. “About fourteen that I’d say I’m actually fluent in. Barely notable, really. The current living record is fifty-nine languages, and there are accounts of people who knew eighty to two hundred, depending on how strict you are on how fluent they had to be and what constitutes a language.” His words were dismissive but his tone was pleased. He always enjoyed a chance to impress John. 

John grinned down at him. “Still. You must be some sort of genius,” he joked. 

Sherlock rolled onto his back, stretching. “Maybe just a bit.” He smirked. 

John slithered down to lie beside him, turning onto his side. “Still, we could go nearly anywhere pretty easily. You managed to hit all the widely-spoken languages.”

Sherlock nodded. “Anyway, I can always learn. Or buy a book of useful phrases at the airport and memorise it on the plane, which is significantly easier.”

John grinned. “Great. I’m so glad I have you.” He paused, and his expression softened. “Really, I am. I don’t know what I did to deserve a brilliant, amazing, handsome genius like yourself.”

Sherlock blushed, hiding his face in the blanket. “Stop that. I’ve already surpassed my emotion quota for today.”

“I’ll bet you have.” John murmured. “You should rest.”

Sherlock groaned. “For once, I agree with you.” 

John patted his hand. “Sleep well. Love you.” He got up to turn out the light, but a hand shot out and grasped his sleeve.

“Say that again?” Sherlock asked quietly. John hadn’t said it outright like that since the first time. Sherlock hadn’t at all, though he knew that John knew.

John met his eyes, smiling softly. “I love you.” he said.

Sherlock smiled back, cheeks red. “I love you too.” He said, letting go of John’s sleeve.

John turned off the light and got back into bed, tucking the covers close around them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We were supposed to make a decision as to where to go today but??? The boys are just??? Not able to focus they keep wanting to talk about other stuff and be sappy like guys,,,,we have to keep the plot going okay,,,
> 
> Also- does this seem too fluffy? I'm aware it seems strange, but you know that thing you do where you drown yourself in something nice and forget about all the bad things until you absolutely have to face them? That's basically what they're doing.


	17. Making Plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John make plans, properly this time.

The following morning after breakfast, they sat down and hammered out the rest of the details for their trip. Their travel plans, once they made them, were extremely vague. Sherlock had latched on strongly to the idea of going wherever they wanted, making it up as they went along. Still, John figured they should still attempt to be somewhat systematic, if only to save themselves some money and time. Sherlock pointed out that they had plenty of both, to which John retorted that he would like to spend those resources actually seeing things and enjoying themselves, rather than stuck in various transportation devices travelling unnecessarily back and forth. 

The plan went something like this- America first, simply because it was so far away and unconnected to everything else. So they’d go, see what they wanted to see, both in the Northern and Southern continents, then fly back to Europe once they’d gotten all that out of the way, and hopefully not decide to make a return trip, because it was eight fucking hours of flying just to get there. Then a Europe tour, and then they’d wiggle their way through Asia. Sherlock discovered that it was actually possible to travel entirely overland, mostly via train, from London to the furthest tip of Southeast Asia, not including Indonesia, which was not connected by land at all. He decided they very much needed to try that, so that was to be the second leg of their trip. Then they might or might not go to Australia, depending on how they feel at the time. Whether or not they go to Australia, they would then fly back up to cover the bits of Asia which they would miss on their roadtrip, mainly India and Nepal. Then they’d take another flight to Turkey, then Egypt, then any other African countries they might want to see. Then back up to Europe, where they would either see a few more places in Europe or just go straight home, depending on how they felt. 

“This is quite a lot of travelling.” John said once they were done. “Could take months. Possibly more than a year, depending. Don’t you want to cut anything?”

“Nope.” Sherlock said with a broad grin. “This is good. We’ll leave right after Christmas.”

John froze. “Christmas.” He muttered. “I forgot completely. What day is it?”

Sherlock laughed. “It’s Christmas Eve, John.”

“Christ.” John tipped his head back, staring at the ceiling in amazement. “So much has happened. And I left your present at home.”

“That’s alright. I already know what it is, anyway.” Sherlock pointed out.

John sighed. “Of course you do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Christmas! Sherlock's favourite holiday. But will it be the same without Mycroft? Of course not.


	18. (Not So) Happy Holidays

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long delay. I had to restart this chapter a few times, and I keep getting slotted for closing shift at work.

The moment the thin, wintry sunlight filtering through the curtains was bright enough to see, Sherlock was shaking John awake, smiling excitedly.

“John, wake up. Merry Christmas.” 

John blinked sleepily. “Merry Christmas.” He muttered, turning over to bury his face in Sherlock’s chest. He threw one arm around the other man, hoping to keep his pillow still so that he could catch another half hour of sleep.

Sherlock untangled himself from John’s sleepy grasp, getting out of bed. “John, stop that. Get up, you can have your lie-in some other day.”

John sat up to frown at Sherlock in confusion. Sherlock was more prone to lie-ins than John was, usually. Unless there was a case, he typically went to bed in the wee hours and woke any time between ten and three - it was like he’d never grown out of his teenage sleeping habits. This was a peculiar departure from the norm. Nevertheless, he obediently got up and began hunting around for a clean set of clothes. 

“No need for that.” Sherlock pushed John towards the bathroom. “Just wash your face. No getting dressed on Christmas, it’s a rule.”

Once John was mostly awake, he was herded downstairs. The Holmes Parents were there, also in their pyjamas. John smiled at them. “Morning. Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas.” They both echoed. 

“Go sit on the sofa.” Sherlock instructed him. John went and sat, smiling at the sight of Sherlock happy and excited.

A few moments later Sherlock came into the sitting room with two mugs, passing one to John.

“Hot chocolate.” Sherlock said. He sat next next to John, curling into his side, cradling his own mug of hot chocolate.

“Hmm. Thank you. Another Holmes family tradition?” John asked.

“Yes.” Sherlock said shortly. 

John took a sip. The chocolate was wonderful - warm, smooth, creamy, and very, very chocolatey. He turned to smile at Sherlock. “No wonder you love Christmas so much. It’s got all your favourite things - sweet drinks, not having to get dressed…” 

Sherlock tipped his head back to look at John. “Indeed. And Mycroft hated it. Ruined his diet. Always a bonus.” He looked suddenly sombre. He turned, throwing his legs over John’s lap. John put an arm around his shoulders. “It’s weird,” Sherlock muttered, “not having him around. Can’t have Christmas without The Grinch.”

They remained there for several long moments, Sherlock taking comfort in John’s free affection. Then he shook him off, downing his mug of hot chocolate. He got up, looking grimly determined. “Well. No time to dwell. We’ve got to get on with Christmas.”


	19. We Are Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time for presents.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We get to know the Holmes Family a little more.

Throughout the rest of the morning there was a distinct sense of something missing, an empty space determinedly unacknowledged by the whole family. All three Holmeses remained determinedly chipper, and though John occasionally caught a melancholy look cross Mr Holmes’ face, or saw Mrs Holmes turn away for a second to dry her eyes, he didn’t dare bring up the elephant in the room, not when everyone else was ignoring it so completely. When they sat down for Christmas lunch, still in their pyjamas, John was left with the uncomfortable awareness that he was sitting in what would probably have been Mycroft’s place, were he still around to sit in it. 

The present exchange afterwards was even worse. First was Mr. Holmes’ gift to Mummy. For that, they all had to get up and wrap themselves in blankets and dressing gowns so they could traipse out to the shed, where Mr. Holmes had hidden - a motorcycle, of all things. Mummy beamed, throwing her arms around her husband’s neck. Mr. Holmes patted her on the back.

“You be careful on that thing, alright.” He said gruffly. “I don’t want to lose you, too.”

She hugged him tighter at that, tearing up again. Siger wrapped his arms around her, and Sherlock tugged John away, the two sneaking silently back to the house to give them a moment alone. While waiting for them to return, John set about making tea for everyone. 

The pair came back in just as tea was ready. Mummy cupped her mug with both hands, smiling gratefully at John. “Thank you, dear. It’s terribly cold out.” 

“Which is why you’re not trying out your new toy until the roads have thawed.” Mr. Holmes added.

“But that’s months off!” Mrs Holmes exclaimed. She caught sight of her husband’s face and sighed. “Yes, dear.” For a moment she looked so like Sherlock denied a cigarette that John had to stifle a laugh. 

Sherlock frowned at John. “What?” He asked.

John smiled at him. “I was just thinking that you really look like your mum.”

Sherlock frowned. “Most say I resemble my father more.”

John shrugged. “But you have her eyes.”

Sherlock rolled said eyes. “So I’ve heard.” 

John cocked his head. “I suppose Mycroft looked more like your mother…”

“Mycroft was adopted.” Sherlock said.

John’s eyes widened. “Really? I never knew.”

“It isn’t important.” Sherlock said sharply. 

“Of course not.” John said placatingly. “He’s your brother either way.”

Sherlock nodded, but didn’t seem keen on continuing the conversation. He turned away towards his parents. “Finish your tea, Mummy. I want to give John his present.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What the heck, Sherlock. You never told me Mycroft's adopted either...


	20. Service Award

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock gives John his Christmas gift, and they head back to London.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, an update! I know, it's been months. I hope someone is still reading this... I promise, that hiatus was a fluke. I won't disappear for that long again. Probably.

John blinked in surprise. “You got me a present?” He hadn’t been expecting that, what with how things had all gone to shit in the last week. That wasn’t even counting the hell Sherlock had been going through before that. 

Sherlock shrugged, easily reading John’s thoughts off his expressive face. “I got it a while back. Wasn’t too hard to just bring it along.” He dashed up the stairs, taking them two at a time, and came back with a small box. 

“It’s silly joke, really.” Sherlock hedged, handing John the box. “You have everything you need, and I know you hate impractical gifts. I just thought it might make you laugh.”

John smiled at Sherlock and opened the box. Inside was a little medal, fake but well made, set in velvet with a small plaque beneath it. It read- ‘To John Watson, in honour of five years of loyal service. Many thanks, Sherlock Holmes.’

“It’s not quite five years yet.” Sherlock explained quickly. “But it’s only a month more, and it seemed presumptuous to get you an anniversary gift. Especially as you were still married, at the time when I thought of it. In any case-”

“Shut up, Sherlock.” John said mildly.

Sherlock shut up, and John pulled him into a hug. “I love it.” He murmured, turning his head to press his lips against Sherlock’s cheek. 

“Good. I’m glad.” Sherlock’s tone held a note of pleased surprise, and he wrapped his arms around John, glaring over John’s shoulder at his parents, especially his mother who seemed like she was on the verge of audibly ‘aww’-ing at them.

A couple hours later, after a few more presents and several more cups of hot chocolate, John and Sherlock were on their way back to London. When the house was out of sight Sherlock leaned back in his seat, breathing a sigh of relief. “Thank God that’s over. I do love my parents, but living with them is simply unbearable.”

John patted Sherlock’s knee. “It’s only once a year.”

Sherlock hummed vaguely. “Next year we’ll be abroad. Unavoidably held up somewhere far away. Japan, maybe.”

John smiled, shaking his head. “That would be quite nice, actually. Maybe we will be. What’s Christmas in Japan like, anyway?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Secular, probably. The point is that my parents won’t be there making disturbing innuendo and hovering.”

John laughed and nodded. “So. When are we leaving?”

“As soon as we can.” Sherlock said simply. “Once we pack, we’ll get the earliest flight we can to any part of America. Any decently interesting part, that is.”

John grinned, enjoying the spontaneity of it all. “Great plan.” He said, without a trace of irony in his voice. Sherlock grinned back, eyes bright with excitement.


	21. Philadelphia Freedom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John head to their first destination.

It didn’t take Sherlock and John long at all to pack. John was used to packing quickly and travelling light, a holdover from his army days, and Sherlock was too excited to really care what he was tossing into his bag. “We’ll be able to buy anything we really need.” He reasoned as John attempted to get him to be more systematic. “Or get Mrs Hudson to mail it to us.”

By midnight on Christmas Day they were in the air, two hours into a nine hour flight to Philadelphia, Sherlock giggling into a corner shop sandwich with his head against John’s shoulder as John sang Elton John songs at him under his breath. 

There’s something strangely intimate about meeting a city for the first time in the wee hours of the morning, when everything is hushed but not silent, like the deep, slow breaths of a sleeping lover. Stepping out of the ever-bright and bustling airport into the cold winter night, Sherlock took John’s hand, stopping him for a moment as he just stood, gazing up at the night sky and breathing in deep lungfuls of Philadelphian air. 

John watched Sherlock take it all in with a patient smile, content to just be standing there, gazing up at Sherlock. He looked ethereally beautiful in that moment, even more so than usual, backlit by soft orange lights, eyes bright, his breath escaping his mouth in frozen wisps. 

Sherlock glanced at John and flushed, caught off guard by the openly adoring look on John’s face. He cleared his throat. “We should find a hotel.”

John nodded, glancing around. Spotting a sign for the taxi stand, he headed off towards it. When they were finally settled in a hotel, Sherlock flopped on the bed, groaning with relief at finally being horizontal. 

“God, it’s good to be out of those chairs.” He sighed, stretching. His back popped, and he moaned, sinking deeper against the soft mattress. 

John’s cheeks heated at the obscene noises Sherlock was making, pretending to poke around the safe and hoping Sherlock wouldn’t notice how affected he was just from that. 

“Could get a massage.” He said after a moment. “They’ve got that here, apparently.”

Sherlock grimaced. “Rather not, thanks.” The thought of a stranger’s hands on his body, even in a professional way, made him shudder.

John glanced at Sherlock, realising. “Sorry.” He said, mentally berating himself for the careless comment.

Sherlock shook his head, yawning. “It’s nothing. Turn off the light and come to bed.”

John flicked off the lights, leaving the bathroom light on in case they needed it. As he slipped between the warm sheets, suddenly realised how bone-tired he was. Mere moments later, he was fast asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying to keep the story pacing along. This won't be an endless travel montage, we'll probably skip over a few places. The focus of the story will remain Sherlock and John's developing relationship, with their travels as a kind of provocation and backdrop.


	22. New Year's Eve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New York is he obvious place to ring in the New Year.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so you've probably noticed that this is the last chapter. I just realised that a lot of what I had planned to write was kind of draggy and predictable. So I'm ending this work here. It's not the end of the series, though. I just decided that how I want to write the next bit makes more stylistic sense as a new part of the series. The pace of the story is going to change. I spent twenty-one chapters on a single week, it doesn't feel right to in the same fic start covering weeks in single chapters. So, there's more to come. Just as a sequel. It's not the end!

They didn’t stay long in Philadelphia. Neither John nor Sherlock had any particular interest in the history of America’s independence, and didn’t bother visiting any of the sites recommended by what felt like every single smug local who happened to notice their British accents. Sherlock instead decided they should go to the Eastern State Penitentiary. They two of them wandered through the crumbling stone ruins together, John only half-listening to the audio tour they’d been given while Sherlock did a little tour of his own, keeping up a running stream of deductions about the past inhabitants of the cells they passed. They also had a wander about the Franklin Institute, and they spent an entire day at the Mütter Museum, a medical history museum that was fascinating for the both of them. Sherlock spent over an hour standing in front of the Hyrtl Skull Collection, a wall of 139 human skulls, observing each skull from every angle possible until he was sure he’d stored each one accurately in his Mind Palace for later reference. 

They could certainly have spent more than the five days that they did in the city, but John wanted to move on. It was nearing the New Year’s, and seeing as New York was only an hour’s train ride away, it seemed a waste not to get there in time to watch the ball drop. 

“You know, it’s arbitrary and ridiculous to count down to midnight in New York when by that time it will already have been 2015 for several hours in London.” Sherlock had argued when John proposed this plan, though John could tell he was only putting up a fuss for the sake of it. 

“We aren’t in London.” John had pointed out mildly. “And you wanted to go to new York anyway.” That was one of the places on their extensive must-hit list.

So there they were, on the thirty-first of December, ringing in the New Year from the balcony of a hotel room overlooking Times Square itself. How Sherlock had managed to wrangle that, John had no idea. 

“You know, they say that whatever you’re doing at midnight on New Years’ Eve is an indicator of what you’re going to be doing in the coming year.” John said, as the gathered crowd chanted numbers several floors below. 

“Well, you already know how pointless and arbitrary I find this particular celebration.” Sherlock murmured. “Though as I already plan to be spending the next year in various hotel rooms with you, perhaps there is an element of truth to it.”

John grinned up at Sherlock. “Just what I was thinking.”

“And,” Sherlock added, “it does feel, this time around, quite like a new beginning. Though of course the reasons for that are largely circumstantial rather than having anything to do with the time of year.”  
John turned to reply to him, but his breath was stolen away as Sherlock leaned down carefully, pressing a brief, chaste kiss against John’s lips.

After a stunned moment John cleared his throat. “You were early.”

In the square below, the crowds screamed as fireworks began going off. Sherlock smirked. “Happy New Year, John.”


End file.
